


nothing on my tongue but hallelujah

by somber_malachite



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, But Still Hopeful, Character Study, Gen, Podfic Available, Podfic Welcome, brief mention of suicidal thoughts, meditation on humanity's capacity for evil, vague references to violence and war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19340974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somber_malachite/pseuds/somber_malachite
Summary: Crawly wanted the thick cover of alcohol back. He shouldn’t have been able to feel her suffering. He didn’twantto hear prayers. What good was it? He couldn’t pass on a message to anyone who could help, and he was quite convinced by now that no one in Heaven was interested in helping anyway.A look into Crowley's mind as he tries to cope with the worst side of humanity, remaining an optimist despite it all.





	nothing on my tongue but hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to ease the ache in my heart during a difficult time. I hope it leaves you feeling hopeful.
> 
> Endless love and thanks to L for beta reading.
> 
> Title from "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen.

He’d been told to cause trouble, to tempt humans to sin, but no one had ever bothered to go over the definition of “sin”, exactly. By now he knew the price of asking too many questions, so he made it up as he went along and hoped for the best.

Crawly was commended for his actions in the Garden, rewarded with an extended placement on Earth, told to keep up the good work and to report back regularly. He thought, all things considered, that being left alone on Earth was better than anything Hell had to offer. He could handle the loneliness. He had been lonely for so long.

There was, of course, that moment— brief and fleeting, but fixed in his memory— on the Garden wall with the Principality Aziraphale, the Angel of the Eastern Gate. A smile, a laugh, and, after minimal prompting, that fascinating admission of disobedience. Crawly kept waiting to hear news of Aziraphale’s Fall. Surely Heaven wouldn’t overlook something as brazen as giving away a flaming sword.

Crawly thought, perhaps, the pain of Falling might be eased by having a companion. Someone else who wouldn’t simply do what they were told without question. But years passed and Crawly heard nothing, and so he tried to forget.

He found the tempting easy enough. Humans were astoundingly fragile, needing regular food and sleep and a delicate balance of temperatures just to stay alive. Deprived of one or another, they became frantic and desperate and selfish, and all too suggestible. Over the centuries, they began to form larger and larger settlements, and the more humans you put in one place, the more likely there would be conflicting needs and desires that could erupt into all manner of chaos. Crawly didn’t need to apply much pressure before they were consumed by greed or anger or desperation to commit acts that Crawly assumed must fall into the category of “sin.”

There was theft, betrayal, intimidation; and Hell was certainly happy with all of this, but it was the violence that they really liked. When the very first war began in earnest, spears flying and fires blazing, Crawly received another commendation and was practically guaranteed an eternity of job security.

Curiously, he discovered that the sights and sounds of the battlefield caused him physical pain, even if he hadn’t been directly harmed. It was a good thing that humans had invented alcohol by then, because he immediately turned to drink as a sedative. For a long while, he tried to keep himself too drunk to think deeply about the things he’d either caused or simply witnessed.

Three years into this stupor, he began to hear the voices. They were pleading, mostly: pleading for mercy, for relief from suffering, or for an expedient death. But there was joy, as well, and there were whispers of hope. Not every voice spoke in words; some simply made sounds heavy with raw emotion. They followed him from village to village, a constant cacophony growing even louder with each setting of the sun.

When, after many years, he finally willed the alcohol out of his bloodstream, the voices only became clearer. And that was the moment he realised that they were prayers.

Crawly had been sunning himself on a rock by a river, and in his sudden sobriety, he realised that there was a woman gathering water not far from him. She had a child with her, and he knew in an instant that the child was ill. She’d been going hungry so that the child would have more to eat, and she’d tried every remedy she knew, but still it made no difference. The child was growing weaker by the day, and all she could do now was to pray for mercy.

Crawly wanted the thick cover of alcohol back. He shouldn’t have been able to feel her suffering. He didn’t _want_ to hear prayers. What good was it? He couldn’t pass on a message to anyone who could help, and he was quite convinced by now that no one in Heaven was interested in helping with such matters anyway.

But perhaps, he could... well, just this once wouldn’t hurt, would it? And how would Hell even find out? He was alone up here anyway.

He slid off the rock, and with a gentle shake of his head, made it so he wouldn’t be seen. He approached the woman and laid a hand on her back, between her shoulder blades. Where her wings would have been if she’d had them.

“I hear you,” he said, a soft whisper of the wind.

And the child was suddenly well.

If Hell noticed, they never mentioned it. But he wouldn’t be able to make a habit of it.

 

He met Aziraphale again at the start of the Flood.

“So, giving the mortals a flaming sword,” he said, lifting one corner of his mouth and trying out a teasing tone of voice he’d heard humans use in certain circumstances. He hoped it wasn’t obvious that he’d barely spoken in the last millenium. “How’d that work out for you?”

Aziraphale winced. “The Almighty has actually never mentioned it again.”

“Probably a good thing,” Crawly said, looking away and trying to hide his disappointment. He changed the subject quickly, before Aziraphale could catch on. “What’s all this about? Build a big boat and fill it with a travelling zoo?”

“From what I hear,” Aziraphale said, lowering his voice even though they weren’t speaking a language any human would understand, “God’s a bit tetchy. Wiping out the human race. Big storm.”

And briefly Crawly thought, _I suppose if I had created humanity, I might want to wipe them out too, after witnessing a thousand years of cruelty and bloodlust_.

But then, no, he wouldn’t, because he had walked among them. Yes, the violence certainly was a central theme of history by that point, but it wasn’t the entire story. The poorest among them could still be generous; the most unloved could still be kind. Humanity’s best moments tended to be small and intimate, but they had, on more than one occasion, overwhelmed him all the same. When he was weighed down by sorrow and really in his cups, he often marvelled over how there seemed to be more grace in them than you’d find in all of Heaven.

And here was the Principality Aziraphale, apparently willing to stand by as innocents died if it was what God wanted, although he didn’t sound like he had a lot of confidence in that bloody Ineffable Plan.

Maybe he was afraid to Fall. Crawly wouldn’t blame him for being afraid— it was a painful ordeal, after all, being cast out of Heaven, and the sting never faded completely— but he couldn’t help being disappointed. He had been looking forward to seeing Aziraphale again. He’d hoped— ah, yes, that was something he’d picked up from the humans— he’d hoped they might become friends.

He wanted to ask, _Can you hear them praying?_

He wanted to ask, _Do you know how to shut them out?_

But he kept quiet as the first raindrops fell.

 

The prayers faded to a constant background hum eventually. It helped to answer one here and there. He took a new name and settled in among the humans, close enough to be known, building himself a character to play. It eased some of the pain that thrummed in his chest. It made it easier to live on Earth if he let himself become more like them.

He turned a probably-inappropriate portion of his attention to Aziraphale, trying to sell him on something he called The Arrangement. He wanted Aziraphale to see that they were the same, that they could perform both temptations and blessings with equal effort. He wanted Aziraphale to see him perform a miracle.

The angel tried to seem like he was scandalised by the very thought, but Crowley won him over easily enough. Aziraphale was already passionate about a whole host of earthly delights, including but not limited to: oysters, wine, honey cakes, cannabis, and nearly anything written or printed by any human, ever. He was besotted with the idea of humans recording things, so that their ideas might live on after they had died. It was clear that Aziraphale’s time on earth had changed things for him, blurring the edges of his halo ever so slightly.

Which may have been why Crowley could hear Aziraphale’s prayers too.

Not that he thought “prayer” was really the right term. Aziraphale could presumably talk to God whenever he wanted. Crowley, whose line of communication had been ostensibly severed, did still send thoughts Her way. He mostly did it when he was angry or afraid, which was (coincidence or not) something he shared with many humans. So Crowley felt alright calling what _he_ did “praying”, but he was quite certain Aziraphale was doing something else.

And yet, Crowley could still feel a shift in the air when Aziraphale was either distressed or overjoyed, like the angel was broadcasting desperation and gratitude on a frequency to which Crowley was automatically tunedf. It was how Crowley knew, in 1793, that he should look for Aziraphale in the Bastille. It was how he knew, in 1941, that Aziraphale would need rescuing in that church.

He slept sometimes, for the pleasure and the relief of it. Often enough, he dreamed of telling Aziraphale everything. He wanted Aziraphale to know, to understand.

 

By the 20th century, he was more than comfortable balancing out his own demonic activity with the occasional blessing. He played favourites with the humans, showing kindness to the truly downtrodden, trying to give them a fighting chance against the interlocking systems humans had built to benefit an ever-shrinking group of elites. It wasn’t enough to stem the tide of human evil, so much more brutal than anything he’d ever dream up, but it helped keep him sane. It helped him let go of his anger at Heaven for turning a blind eye to so much suffering.

If Hell ever caught him at it, he was convinced that his efforts would be worth whatever torture they dreamed up for him. But in the case it all went pear-shaped, he didn’t plan to go down without a fight.

He’d hoped Aziraphale would just hand over the holy water after his first request. After all, he was sure that he and the angel were nearing the neighbourhood of friendship by now. But Aziraphale had refused, and in 1967, after a century of alternately sleeping and brooding over it, Crowley was desperate enough to take matters into his own hands.

And, apparently, he was desperate enough that Aziraphale noticed.

“What are you doing here?” he said, feeling very vulnerable at the thought of anyone entering the Bentley without his permission.

“I needed a word with you,” said Aziraphale.

“What?”

“I work in Soho. I hear things. I hear that you’re setting up a... caper to rob a church.”

 _Did you hear gossip_ , Crowley wanted to ask, _or did you hear_ me _?_

Crowley felt certain he knew the answer. And this was faith, wasn’t it? Because he didn’t need Aziraphale to tell him. All the proof he needed was in the softness of his eyes, the plaintive note in his voice when he told Crowley not to go unscrewing the cap.

Aziraphale must have heard him. It must have been too much for the angel to bear, and so he had decided to show Crowley mercy.

Even after Aziraphale had left him alone in the car, he sat holding the flask gingerly between the very tips of his fingers. He carefully put the flask in the glove box, and the quiet slosh of the liquid inside sounded to him like a roll of thunder.

He gestured at the ignition switch and had the Bentley drive him home (although he did grip the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking). When the car was parked again, he sat in silence for a long time, then closed his eyes.

 _Principality Aziraphale, the angel formerly of the Eastern Gate and currently of Soho_ , he thought (assuming it would be best to be specific, seeing as he’d never done this intentionally before), _thank you. I am grateful_. _I promise this isn’t for what you’re thinking._

Aziraphale might not want to hear it, but Crowley believed he would feel it all the same.

**Author's Note:**

>  _I did my best, it wasn't much_  
>  _I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch_  
>  _I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you_  
>  _And even though it all went wrong,_  
>  _I'll stand before the Lord of Song_  
>  _With nothing on my tongue but hallelujah_  
>  \--"Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen  
>   
> Comments are very much appreciated, and feel free to come talk to me on tumblr (@somber-malachite).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] nothing on my tongue but hallelujah](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19900102) by [burnhamofvulcan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnhamofvulcan/pseuds/burnhamofvulcan)




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